


Autumn In Mazatlán

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Brief allusions to cannibalism, Domestic Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Food is Not People, M/M, Married Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Minor Original Character(s), No Angst, Not Beta Read, Oneshot, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Self-Indulgent, Sick Character, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 01:16:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18768223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Will Graham has retained an enduring love for shitty food. Unfortunately, it’s quite difficult to stuff yourself with off brand deep dish pizza flavored potato chips when your husband has just spent the past two and a half hours baking you fresh Cepelinai.Or: Hannibal gets sick and it’s finally Will’s turn to cook.





	Autumn In Mazatlán

**Author's Note:**

> I’m trying to write things that aren’t overly angsty. We’ll see how it goes :)

Will Graham has retained an enduring love for shitty food. Unfortunately, it’s quite difficult to stuff yourself with off brand deep dish pizza flavored potato chips when your husband has just spent the past two and a half hours baking you fresh Cepelinai. Hannibal reserves his most judgmental sideyes for anytime he catches Will eating anything less than gourmet. Rationally Will knows it’s a small thing and when he vents his frustration to Isla, a friend he’s made at the fish market he’s frequented since they arrived in Mazatlán last month, she laughs and scolds him.

  
  
  


“¡Desearía que mi perezoso bastardo de marido se sacara de su trasero y me hiciera la cena!” 

  
  
  


“I know. I  _ know _ Isla! I’m very lucky. Your husband doesn’t deserve you.” He teases.

  
  
  


“¡Necesitas estar más agradecido! y darme una invitación a cenar!”  

  
  
  


Will watches Isla as she wipes excess fish guts from the catch she’s currently skinning unto her apron and dabs at her ruddy face with a stained red bandana. He thinks about her meal request. There’s doubt that it would be entertaining to infuse her chaos into Hannibal’s meticulously organized kitchen but Will doesn’t particularly want to share the vibrancy of the portly older woman with his husband just yet. He’s fully accepted his own abnormalities in the years since the fall but finds he still enjoys spending time with normal people whenever needs a break from Hannibal’s eccentricities. Besides, they were never that well known in Mexico but Isla could make the connection if she saw them together.

  
  
  


“You wouldn’t like my husbands dinner parties. Conversation is maddeningly polite. I’ll bring you some leftovers next time we see each though. Maybe your husband will work up enough energy to microwave them.” Will pays her and leaves with a wave. 

  
  
  


“You’re so kind to me.”  Isla calls after him. 

  
  
  


The neon lights in the window of the cornershop a block over from Isla’s market advertising a new brand of root beer, are too alluring to pass up. It isn’t the first time Will’s done the shopping but stepping into a grocery store without a demanding mile long list from Hannibal is a momentous occasion. Visiting any shop that has items costing less than 60 USD is yet another victory. He grabs a rickety green shopping basket by the door and walks inside, the blast of air conditioning a welcome reprieve from the early fall heat.

  
  
  


“Hola.” He smiles at the shopkeeper who looks up from her magazine to cast a bored look in Will’s direction. He makes a beeline to the giant snack display up front grinning giddily as he reads over the labels. It’s taken a lot to get here.

  
  
  
  


In their years on the run spent rotating between Hannibal’s seemingly endless properties in locales from Amsterdam to Mendoza they’ve gotten sick a few times. Usually it’s Will who’s curled up in bed while Hannibal fusses over him with soup and dry crackers as they weigh their options about whether a hospital visit would be worth the paperwork and accompanying scrutiny of their latest fake identity. Hannibal’s caught a few bugs but never anything serious enough to keep him off his feet. Until this week. 

  
  
  


It had started as a cold, a few sneezes here and there as they strolled the beaches in the bright Mexican sunshine. Soon it had escalated to Hannibal running a high fever, shuffling around their house in striped satin pajamas and Will’s ratty bedroom slippers. For the first two days of this he had flat out refused to stop cooking, dragging himself off the couch and into their kitchen to make them stuffed French toast for breakfast and returning again to arrange cherry bruschetta for lunch. It’s only when he lost concentration flipping a skillet full of steak due a racking cough that Will intervened. He found Hannibal sitting on the kitchen floor staring balefully at the ruined remains of their 7,000 peso wagyu cut.

  
  
  


“You need to rest love.” Will had knelt next to him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

  
  
  


“I have been resting.” Hannibal pouted. 

  
  
  


“Getting up every four hours to spend three hours making a meal for us is not  _ resting _ Hannibal.” Will strokes his cheek noticing with alarm how warm the other man’s skin has become. 

  
  
  


“That’s a blatant exaggeration darling. Dinner would have been done within the hour.” Hannibal protests. 

  
  
  


“Take a shower and get some sleep. I’ll make dinner tonight.” Hannibal had made some disquieted noise but eventually let Will help him unto his feet before he hobbled along to their bathroom, stopping to cough on the landing of the second floor. Will had crouched down to pick up the wasted meat and thrown it away as he  tried not to think about how many meals a family of four below the poverty line could have eaten with the money it cost to have it hand delivered delivered to their doorstep. 

  
  
  


The fridge and pantry were completely stocked with ingredients and simple bases for the elaborate meals Hannibal envisioned. Meals that Will had no idea how to cook, though not for lack of trying. In all the time they’d lived together Hannibal had insisted on being the only one who cooked. The rest of the household chores, furnishing their houses and taking care of the pet they’d adopted along the way, were split relatively evenly but anything to do with food was strictly Hannibal’s domain. 

  
  
  


In the early days Will had eagerly offered to help with meal prep but the most Hannibal ever  trusted him with was a potato peeler. When Will had asked him about it one snowy winter evening in Sheffield Hannibal had smiled and explained his reasoning. 

  
  
  


“I suppose that in some ways it is simply that as a gentleman I wish to provide for you. I am self aware enough to admit that it is partially because I enjoy showing off. And if you were to become proficient as you no doubt would, quick learner that you are, then I would have one less occasion to do so.” He had finished as he added a sprinkle of caster sugar to the plum pudding he’s been serving.  Will mumbled his agreement happy enough to let Hannibal have his hubris. He was content to show off in other ways. Which had put them in this situation.

  
  
  


Will eyes the neatly stacked wrapped packages of meat in the freezer figuring Hannibal probably enjoy something inside. One hard to get cut had already been ruined tonight and Will didn’t trust himself not to damage anything one. He settled on warming up a bowl of leftover pasta primavera, bringing it to Hannibal with a glass of white wine. They’d enjoyed it in bed together and watched half of one of Hannibal’s favorite silent films before Hannibal had been ready to go to sleep.

  
  
  


“Your monopolization of the kitchen has made it so I don’t know what the hell to make with the stuff we have.” Will told him when he got out of bed to turn off the lights.

  
  
  


“Please don’t try my love.” Hannibal had laughed weakly.

  
  
  


“I’m perfectly capable of cooking for myself when dishes don’t require a culinary degree. Molly never complained!” 

  
  
  


“About your hamburger helper meatloaf?” Hannibal had joked.

  
  
  


“Shut up.” Will had flipped off the lights and crawled back into bed beside Hannibal, resting his head on the other man's chest before being unceremoniously pushed away. 

  
  
  
  


“Please don’t think I tire of you wanting to hold me Will. I just don’t see the point in making the both of us as incapacitated as I am.” 

  
  
  
  


“You don’t see any appeal in spending a couple days relaxing in bed with me?” 

  
  
  


“It wouldn’t be very relaxing with the both of us hacking our lungs out.” Hannibal coughed again as if to prove his point.

  
  
  
  


“I’m going to go shopping tomorrow so I won’t ruin all your plans for the food we have now.” Will shifted to the other side of the bed. 

  
  
  


“But you always loved ruining my plans dear Will. Anyhow, I’ll make you a list in the morning.”

  
  
  


“I don’t need you to write me a list. I’m picking the food.” 

  
  
  


“Should I be worried?” Hannibal frowned. 

  
  
  
  


“You should be terrified.” 

  
  
  
  


This morning Hannibal had woken up feeling much worse for wear. 

  
  
  


“I think I have the flu Will.” He groaned.

  
  
  


“No stomach pain?” Will had held up an oversized martini glass of water for Hannibal to drink from. 

  
  
  


“No. But we both know I have a very strong stomach.” Will smiles glad his husband still had enough for a sense of humor. He had left him in their bed underneath a pile of fleece blankets, bundled up in his favorite fluffy white bathrobe with a pile of old psychiatric magazines for company after promising to return for lunch. He’d spent most of the morning out by the docks and before taking his catch to Isla’s market. It was early afternoon now so he’d have to shop fast. 

  
  
  


Most of the labels in the shop were Spanish. The immersion therapy had made him almost fluent but reading the language was still something Will was practicing. It would be easy enough to go mainly off of pictures and familiar brands. He pulls out his phone and sends a quick picture of the crowded snack food aisle to Hannibal.

  
  
  


_ Will: See anything you like?  _

  
  
  


His phone buzzes a few minutes later while he’s deliberating between between spicy chamoy candy straws called Strinkles and dried mango dusted with Chile pepper. He throws both in the basket and goes to answer his text. 

  
  


_ Hannibal: Oh god.  _

_ Hannibal: Will are you in a Walmart….?  _

_ Hannibal: How pedestrian.  _

 

_ Will: at a corner store across from the fish market _

_ but don’t bag on Walmart I had some good times there in college _

 

_ Hannibal: I have a soft spot for milky ways.  _

 

_ Will: really?  _

 

_ Hannibal: Yes. I don’t exist in a vacuum Will. _

 

_ Will: Alright love I’ll buy you ten _

 

_ Hannibal: Wait.  _

_ Hannibal: Will  _

_ Hannibal: Don’t waste our money on the American variety. I only eat the global version.  _

 

_ Will: … _

_ Will: of course you do I’ll be home in an hour.  _

  
  


Will grabs a few more obscure brands of snack food and a couple of bags of those deep dish pizza chips for good measure before leaving the snack display for the main grocery aisle. He catches a glimpse of a lonely box of hamburger helper, remembers Hannibal’s mockery and considers buying it just to be spiteful before he spots a better option. 

  
  


Kraft mac and cheese is a comfort food. It reminds him of the fraction of childhood he had before all the shit began. Will used to eat it back in Wolf Trap after crappy days at work. When he met Hannibal those days had become more and more frequent. There’d been a point in time where the only meal he wasn’t eating at Hannibal’s was mac and cheese in his boxers at three am, straight from the pot. Obviously he’d overused that particular coping mechanism. 

  
  
  


He doesn’t remember having any since the fall. Occasionally they would eat out if a hunting trip took them away overnight but the restaurants they picked had only served it on the kids menu. Will was never quite up to facing  _ that _ ridicule. Today he walks back to the front of the shop and grabs another basket. He fills the second entirely with boxes of extra creamy. There are many advantages to having a husband born into obscene amounts of wealth but being able to splurge on unreasonable amounts of mac and cheese is one of Will’s new favorites. 

  
  


There’s a dessert rack at the end of the aisle. Will looks at the brownie and cake mixes and thinks about the time he’d almost burnt the house down trying to make a confetti cake for Walters birthday. That time Molly  _ had _ complained. He’s pretty sure it was a one time thing (the fancy oven they have at home probably has some extra loud warning setting anyways) but just to be safe he passes on the mix. He uses the rest of the first cart for food from the shops tiny refrigerated aisle. Premade chocolate chip cookies, a box of bubba burgers, and a trio of frozen pizzas: bacon lovers, Hawaiian, and margarita, as well as a jug of fruit punch. 

  
  
  


They’re having a sale on instant noodles so he adds a couple of Maruchan on his way to check out. The woman behind the counter looks a lot less bored once she sees the shopping basket fully occupied by the kraft boxes.

  
  
  


_ “Hostia puta”  _ she mumbles. “Your kids must really like mac and cheese huh?” 

_   
  
_

 

_ “ _ It’s for me actually.” 

  
  
  


“To each his own.” She smiles as she begins scanning his items.

  
  
  


He’s been conditioned to expect Hannibal greeting him at the door or waiting for him in the living room with a new piano composition. Spoiled enough to get used to smelling the aromas of his husband cooking accompanied by the soft swell of opera. The house is usually peaceful. But today it is dead silent. There’s only one dog waiting inside on their welcome mat. Brutus is their newest adoptee. They’d found him running through the streets of  Mazatlán chasing after a screaming tourist who must have been drunk off his ass to have that severe of a reaction to a chihuahua. So far Brutus has been uniquely fond of Will and today he follows, nipping at his heels as Will sets the bags down on the kitchen counter and hurries to check on his husband. 

  
  
  


Will finds the rest of the dogs in their room. The pack is laying at the foot of the bed in what looks like a containment circle. Hannibal is asleep atop the covers, bathrobe thrown on the floor to combat what was probably a hot flash. Will quietly steps over a dog to reach him, laying a hand on his forehead to check if the fevers broke. Hannibal still feels like a space heater on high blast. His hair is messy and sweat drenched and his nose is bright red. Will’s one of the few people to have seen Hannibal truly undone. But not in this way. Although he knows that it’s not a serious virus he worries nonetheless. Will leans down to kiss his cheek, careful he’s quick enough not to wake him. Brutus yaps from the doorway, upset about the lack of attention. 

  
  
  


“Shh!” Will warns.

  
  
  


“Hm. Someone’s jealous Will.” Hannibal croaks from beneath him, voice still heavy with sleep.

  
  
  


“I didn’t mean to wake you love. Just to check if you were alright.” 

  
  
  


“I’m touched you were worried about me. Truly I am.” He jokes reaching for Will’s hand. “Not to fret. Your dogs were protecting me.” 

  
  
  
  


“I’ll make you dinner. You should try and get more sleep.” 

  
  
  


“Alright.” Hannibal agrees looking around like he’s misplaced something.

  
  
  


“Oh! Here.” Will leans down to grab the fallen robe. 

  
  
  


“Merci mille fois Will.” 

  
  
  


“It’s just a robe. Don’t be so dramatic.” Will grins as he passes the robe over. Hannibal tries to sit up to catch his lips but Will jumps away. He looks confused and Will snorts. 

  
  
  


“I thought you were so committed to not getting me sick!” He taunts as he walks back to an ecstatic Brutus.

  
  
  


“You’ll have to forgive me. I was so overcome by your kindness mylimasis.” 

  
  
  


“Picking up a fallen bathrobe caused you to be so taken by passion?” 

  
  
  


“It’s the little things Will. You know that.” He pauses to cough and Will remembers he’s ill. 

  
  
  


“Get some sleep Hannibal. I’ll bring lunch up to you.” 

  
  
  


“Mmm I’ll be thinking of a perfect movie. Maybe something set during the Spanish influenza.” 

  
  
  


The bags downstairs are exactly where he’s left them, which is a bit of a small miracle considering how much of a little shit Hannibal’s cat is. They adopted the bastard in Milan and he has quickly become one of the banes of Will’s existence. The dishes haven’t been done for a couple of days so there’s limited options in cookery. He retrieves a comically large stock pot from the cabinet, Hannibal usually uses it for broths or sauces but he crosses his fingers and hopes it will be alright for an oversized batch of Mac and cheese. 

  
  
  


He gets to cooking, setting the water to boil on the stovetop and trying not to step on Brutus as the little dog nips at his ankles. It’s still too quiet. The only sound is the soft hum of the refrigerator. He preheats the oven for the cookies taking a bite of raw dough as he lays them out on a tray and decides it’s time for some music. 

  
  
  


If possible Hannibal, traditionalist that he is, has always preferred the authenticity of a record player to anything modern day technology can provide. The fragility of vinyls paired awfully with their mobile lifestyle but Hannibal was nothing if not stubborn. It was only after a tragic incident when they left Argentina that things had changed. When Hannibal had unboxed the sorry state of his Sydney Symphony collection Will was sure he would have to forcibly restrain him from murdering the movers but Hannibal had just sighed and finally ordered them a Bluetooth speaker. 

  
  
  


Tonight Will scrolls past the recently played on their account, a medley of classical and a specific era in French pop. He clicks on a playlist of what promises to be the “ _ 100 best country songs of all time”  _ and adds the pasta to the stock pot while listening to  _ Jolene _ . He stirs in the orange powdered cheese to  _ I Walk the Line _ and is halfway through the chorus of Shania Twain’s  _ That Don’t Impress Me Much  _ when Hannibal calls from the landing. 

  
  
  


“I’m beginning to think you are trying to torture me while I’m ill.” His husband's voice carries from the top of the stairs 

  
  
  


“What? This is a classic!” Will protests 

  
  
  
  


“Hmm. You can keep your music taste dear Will. Perhaps consider wearing some earbuds for my sake?” Hannibal continues as he stumbles into the kitchen. 

  
  
  
  


“So you can blast your opera at all hours of the night but  _ my _ music is banned?” Will smiles. “What are you doing downstairs? I told you I’d take food to you.” 

  
  
  
  


“I was curious to see what a mess you’d made of my kitchen.” Hannibal stares pointedly at the patch of orange powder that didn’t quite make it into the pot. “What have you prepared for us tonight darling?” 

  
  
  
  


“This afternoons meal will be macaroni au gratin served directly from the pot. It will be served with a juice drink make from locally sourced strawberries oranges and grapes and freshly baked cookies with Belgian semi sweet chocolate chunks” 

  
  
  
  


“Really Will? Because it looks like you’ve made kraft Mac and cheese with toll house chocolate chip cookies and glasses of  Tropicana fruit punch.”

  
  
  


“You caught me.” Will offers an arm to Hannibal who uses it for support as they walk to the table.

  
  
  
  


“I must admit this is not my ideal comfort food.”  He jokes as Will dishes out the Mac and cheese onto a plate he’s set and sits down opposite him.

  
  


“I don’t think you’re in the physical condition to catch and prepare you  _ ideal _ comfort food, do you?” Will jokes. 

  
  
  


“You make a fair point. This looks delicious Will.  Thank you for taking the time to cook for me. I’d never be in a passable physical condition for hunting if you fed me like this every day.” Hannibal praises as he takes a bite of the pasta. 

  
  
  


“What has gotten into you? It took ten minutes to cook and it looks borderline radioactive.”

  
  
  


“I’m just glad you are still here with me Will. That you care  for me enough to take time to look after me. Thank you. For staying with me through everything I put you through. Through everything I continue to put you through.” 

  
  
  


“We’ve been  _ married _ for three years. You know I would never think of leaving you!” Will talks through a mouthful of macaroni.

  
  
  


“Even so. Every day I wake up grateful that you are mine.” Hannibal frowns, taking a sip of the fruit punch. 

  
  
  


“Hold on....” Will pauses setting his fork down and looking at Hannibal “Hannibal Lecter-Graham. Do you get sentimental when you’re _sick?”_ Hannibal sighs.

  
  
  
  


“Oh god yes! It’s why I work so hard to avoid it. I’ve been so lonely all day! I even briefly considered cuddling up with your dogs! I was trying to be pragmatic. It’s true that I don’t want to make you ill as well but it’s been so hard to-”

  
  
  


“Hannibal!” Will laughs. “Do you honestly think I care about you getting me sick? You’ve done a lot worse and I’ve damn near thanked you for it.” 

  
  
  


“Well I only-”

  
  
  
  


“Shut up for a second. Come here.” Will beckons and he stands and hobbles across the table to where Will is sitting. “Let's go upstairs. I’ll bring the cookies. We can watch your movie and you can hold me and gush about how much you love me for as long as you like.” 

  
  
  
  


“Will you promise not to give me shit for it later?” Hannibal asks, skeptical.

  
  
  


“Oh, no. I’m totally bringing this up every time you complain about me getting emotional.” Will answers as Hannibal holds out a hand and they walk, together this time, up the stairs and into their room. The closeness restored things feels right again. Will has no idea how he lived without this for so long. He’s glad he no longer has too. 

  
  
  


Will ends up underneath Hannibal’s arm, pressed up against his side. The sounds of the generic rom com they end up picking fade into the background as Hannibal whispers more appreciation in between bites of cookies. They exchange kisses that taste like chocolate and reminisce on all their missed opportunities. They fall asleep still wrapped up in each other both too tired, in the end, to turn off the lights. 

  
  
  


He wakes up from their nap to a yapping Brutus, begging to be taken out to the bathroom and a small but insistent tickle in the back of his throat. He takes the dog for his walk in the early evening humidity eating from the bag of dried chile mangoes. He slips back into bed before Hannibal wakes up, completely content. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Translations: 
> 
> Desearía que mi perezoso bastardo de marido se sacara de su trasero y me hiciera la cena. [I wish my lazy bastard husband would get off his ass and make me dinner.]
> 
> Necesitas estar más agradecido! y darme una invitación a cenar!” [You need to be more grateful. And invite me to dinner.]
> 
> Hostia puta [Holy fuck]
> 
> Merci mille fois [A thousand thanks]
> 
> mylimasis [my love, darling, lover]
> 
>  
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are much appreciated :)


End file.
